


nothing ever happens if you stay in your room (and other life lessons)

by calculus



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Art School, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Cooking, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 16:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calculus/pseuds/calculus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's <i>not</i> a problem, okay.</p><p>It's a small crush on a somewhat big-time actor, what's the big deal? Plenty of people develop crushes on hot young actors (see: the entire Twilight franchise and that weird MTV show about mermen), and plenty more have standing invitations for big A-list actors and actresses to enter their dreams at night for some nighttime lovin' (see: George Clooney, Chris Evans, motherfucking Rebel Wilson). Stiles is perfectly justified in his crush.</p><p>(Or, in which Stiles has a serious crush on rising star Scott McCall, and Derek is just. There.)</p><p>[caveat: these are dead wips that i'm posting up. nothing's finished, and they probably won't ever be unless i suddenly grow back enough interest in this fandom. take that as you will.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. nothing ever happens if you stay in your room

**Author's Note:**

> hello, fandom~ it's been so very long since i've posted here for the derek/stiles tag, and i tried, i really did! but then season 3a happened, and the majority of my feels for both this pairing and this show shriveled up, so all the wips i had in mind to do died too. :(
> 
> but i wanted to share them anyway bc they were gathering up dust in my gdocs and i thought it was such a shame to let them never see the light of day bc i was really into some of them and wanted to do so many things!!!! but they just never came to fruition.
> 
> tl;dr this is basically a compilation of all my wips i ever did, which is why it's tagged with so many aus and so out there.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or, au in which stiles is love with the rising young actor, scott mccall, and trying to deal with the realities of life when scott comes out with a relationship with the illustrious allison argent, america's sweetheart. (stiles stilinski/derek hale, who isn't even mentioned i love it just shoot me) basically, stiles does a one-night stand with derek, and then falls into situations that repeatedly put him with derek and they grow from fuck buddies to actual boyfriends AHAHAHA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was actually gonna write the sex for this fic too (could u imagine tho), but lolz, that never panned out. my regrets are plenty.

Lydia finds him in his room, hanging upside over his bed frame and swiping through pictures on his ipad while making whimpering sounds every other picture.

"Stiles, have you even _left_ this room since last night?" she asks incredulously, leaning against the door frame. Stiles doesn't spare her a glance, still listlessly swiping for the next picture, but he sighs an affirmative yes with the air of a forlorn fourteen-year-old child in love.

"This is ridiculous," Lydia snaps, unable to handle more than a few minutes of watching her roommate wallow away in the deep recesses of his tumblr tags. She stomps into his room, carefully avoiding the strewn boxers and shorts on the carpet with a disgusted expression, and snatches the ipad from Stiles' limp hands even as he weakly protests. "You're acting worse than when Harley dumped your sorry ass freshman year."

Stiles grunts and pushes himself up from the bed with effort, nearly braining himself with his own arm in the process, and shifts over on the bed so that Lydia can situate herself beside him. She smooths down her skirt before primly sitting down, placing the confiscated ipad on her other side, and stares down at Stiles' lying form.

"You don't get it, Lydia, it's over, my whole life is _over_ ," Stiles mumbles, grabbing for his pillow to shove his face into. Lydia rolls her eyes. "There's nothing to live for."

"One, angsty fourteen-year-old girl is so not a good look on you. Two, you're blubbering over an actor who got himself a girlfriend. Three, _really_ , Stiles, are you kidding me right now?"

Stiles lifts his head up with a watery-eyed glare and a scowl. "Lydia, you're supposed to be comforting me in my time of crisis, not giving me sass right now. Also, he's not some actor, okay, he's fucking _Scott McCall_ , only the hottest rising young talent in Hollywood right now, _and_ he just got nominated for an Oscar last season."

Lydia raises her eyebrows, unimpressed. "Do you really need me to say anything more?"

"Oh my _god_ , shut up, I know I have a problem!" Stiles wails and dives back into his pillow to muffle his screams.

" _Yeah_ , you do."

-

It's not a _problem_.

It's a small crush on a somewhat big-time actor, what's the big deal? Plenty of people develop crushes on hot young actors (see: the entire Twilight franchise and that weird MTV show about mermen), and plenty more have standing invitations for big A-list actors and actresses to enter their dreams at night for some nighttime lovin' (see: George Clooney, Chris Evans, motherfucking Rebel Wilson). Stiles is perfectly justified in his crush.

And, Scott McCall is the most perfect man on the _planet_ , okay, he fucking adopts little abandoned kittens and puppies off the dead-end roads whenever he passes by the bodega on his street (and it makes for a ridiculously photogenic front page cover on Us Weekly). _And_ , in all the time Stiles has followed Scott's career, he's never once found anything-- _anything at all_ \--that Scott's done wrong; his worst offense to date was yelling at the paparazzi for pushing over an old lady while taking his picture, and even then the paparazzi just cooed at him.

Who wouldn't fall for a guy like that?

(He fell for Scott, hook line sinker, after coming across him during a late-night TV binge sophomore year in one of those random crime procedurals that still run in the dark of the night. There had been something just so charismatic about Scott's acting, and after five minutes of watching his character plead not guilty in a courtroom full of vultures with his earnest brown eyes, Stiles was _done_.

Scott being a good guy in real life is just icing on the cake, really.)

-

Stiles has had only three relationships in his twenty years of life.

His first girlfriend: Bree Williams, in the seventh grade, lasted about a month when Bree finally sought greener pastures with stupid Jeffrey Michigan and his stupid Nintendo DS that had all the girls running to his yard. His first foray into the dating world and he'd come out of it a bit wiser, if a little bitter that he didn't get a DS even though he'd begged his dad relentlessly that Christmas. (The Xbox 360 the following year helped to allay the hurt.)

Second had been Danny Mahealani, his first boyfriend, after Stiles had spent summer of tenth grade coming to terms with his own bisexuality and subsequently pestering Danny until he'd finally agreed to go on _one_ date with him. Hah. They'd lasted six months--and what a glorious sexual awakening it had been.

Rebecca Harlowe--or Harley, as she was known to their freshman hall, had been his third. And she'd been his first love, out of all of them, with her soft brown skin and even softer mouth and her don't-fuck-with-me attitude. He'd been in love for the first time, and Lydia didn't lie when she said he'd been a wreck when they'd ended by the conclusion of their first year of college together. Stiles had to be physically dragged out of his room by his roommate for a cold dunk in the gymnasium pool after spending two weeks holed up in their room, surrounded by Harley's leftover shirts and presents and three whole barrels of cheese balls for company.

It's not like Stiles doesn't date, though. He gets by with the occasional one-night stand with some nameless face from a club or a co-ed in one of his classes, but. What he yearns for is a solid relationship, a person to come home to after a long day of classes and annoying freshmen: to cuddle with and hold hands with and enjoy a nice peaceful meal with; a warm body to touch at night and whisper mundane things to and a love to pluck kisses from. Not just a quick fuck and a few bites at the mouth.

(He knows Scott isn't that person, though. He _knows_. Knows that Scott is just a person who acts for a living, who likes to entertain people and make them laugh with his body and his actions, knows that Scott doesn't owe him anything just because Stiles takes comfort in the smiles he sees on screen. Scott's allowed to be happy with any person that _he_ wants because for the love of god, Stiles isn't even in his life!

Stiles is a just a fan.)

-

Scott McCall's new relationship with Allison Argent, America's sweetheart, came out on Tumblr of all places one innocuous afternoon while Stiles was in the middle of his developmental psychology class, mindlessly trolling his tracked tags while his professor nattered on about the visual system of infants and the eye-tracking experiments done.

He'd been in between glances at his laptop screen and the projector at the front of the auditorium room with the slides of charted tracked eye-movements of babies for some stupid experiment when the shaky, dark pictures of Scott intimately pressed against Allison Argent scrolled up, and at first, Stiles had thought it just a really poorly-taken photoshoot set for some new movie.

But, there's a distinct difference between the brightly-lit sets of press-release photography and the jerky mugshots of hidden paparazzi, and this. This had not been a PR move.

The intimacy between the two people had been undeniable, even through the poor-quality pixels, and Stiles had felt a drop in his stomach and an inexplicable nausea rise up while his normally steadfast pulse had staggered into an unsavory and uneven drumming.

He still remembers nothing from that lecture day.

-

His dashboard is filled with unending praises for the new romance, text posts alternating between how fucking adorable ‘McArgent’ was and how absolutely _devastated_ they were that McCall got snatched up finally, gif reblogs of that same set of photos that first outed them and then the subsequent slew of pictures that came after the two had publicly acknowledged the relationship by attending the SAG awards show together hand-in-hand. There are angry anons complaining to people he follows about how pressed they are that Scott and Allison are dating, and the dressing-downs the blogs publish in response, with carefully searched pictures of McArgent interactions from the past ten years and how they'd been "friends before they hooked up and it's fucking adorable that they finally got together, so shut your pieholes because you clearly don't deserve this magical treasure that is McArgent" and the multiple likes and reblogs of those posts cropping up one after another.

His online friends are squealing to each other, and to him, and Stiles tries, he really does, because Scott and Allison _are the cutest fucking couple ever_ and it's so obvious how in love they are with each other, and he wants to be happy for them, he _wants so badly_ , but.

It feels like he's dead inside, with no way out. Every picture he sees of the two of them smiling at each other, at them nuzzling at each other's temples or playing with their hands at award shows and movie screenings and public outings, Stiles feels sick and angry and desperate to feel neither of those things because _he shouldn't care like this_. He sees their faces when he closes his eyes for a second in the middle of a conversation with a friend or trying to go to bed at night, and it feels like he's crumbling inside.

Bit by bit.

-

“You’re seriously pining way too much,” Erica points out with her fork, chewing noisily on her salad course. Stiles makes a face at her, looking up from cutting his steak, and kicks her in the shin under the table.

They’re having lunch at The Cheesecake Factory to celebrate her birthday because it’s unfortunately fallen on a weekday this year in between midterms and lab reports from hell and Stiles hasn’t had cheesecake in over five months, so he deserves something nice and sweet.

“I’m serious, dick, don’t kick me,” she growls, kicking back harder, and Stiles has to hold back a yelp from the pain. “I’m worried about you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me, Erica, and if anything, it’s the throbbing pain in my leg right now that’s the biggest issue,” Stiles snarks. “Seriously, did you hide a rock in your shoe or something because _ow_ , motherfuck.”

She rolls her eyes and stabs her fork in the piece of meat Stiles was about to put in his mouth and brings it to her own to eat. “You’re deflecting, stop that.”

“Look, Erica, I’m fine. I’ve already had this talk from Lydia, I don’t need you to judge me and my woefully pathetic feelings too, okay,” Stiles says seriously, trading his knife for the water glass. Erica purses her lips and waits for him to finish drinking before pressing on.

“But you’re not _fine_ , you asshole, you’ve been acting like this since January and it’s freaking me out! You smile, you talk to people, you go to class early, _you get your work done ahead of time_ ; do you not see what’s wrong here?”

“Uh huh. Most people would say that’s a good thing,” Stiles deadpans. Erica scowls and steals another bit of steak from his plate.

“Not for you, it’s not! Look, I know you really liked this actor, but he’s just an actor, you do know that, right? He’s not your friend or anything, you’ve never even met the guy! But you’re acting like he just dumped you on your anniversary night, Stiles, and that’s worrying me a lot. You’re too emotionally attached to him, and for what reason? Because he looks pretty?”

“It’s not that simple, okay!” Stiles bursts out, finally angry. “You think I don’t know that already? You think I’m just deluding myself into thinking I was going to be Mr. Scott McCall? I’m a grown man, Erica, I think I know the difference between fantasy and reality. I _know_ all that! I _know_ he’s not mine, that he never was, and that he never will be. You think I don’t hate myself already for acting like this? I can’t--I _can’t_ \--” He breaks off, unexpectedly choked up, and puts down his fork to smear both his hands across his face.

So, he’s not fine. Whatever.

“Oh, Stiles,” Erica murmurs, frowning. She grabs his hand, gives it a squeeze, and starts eating again. “We’re going to the pub tonight, okay, this is officially a thing.”

“Wh-what, Erica, no, I’m swamped with work, are you kidding me?” Stiles stutters, thrown off by her suggestion. Erica makes a frustrated noise and swaps her salad with his steak, slapping his hands away when he tries to retrieve his meal with bared teeth.

“No excuses. You need to get over this guy like stat, and I am actually going to go out of my mind if I keep looking at my o-chem lab report anymore, so yeah. We’re doing this. I’m going to drink until my eyes bleed, and you’re going to go home with the first person who crosses your path and fuck until Lydia snaps your dick off for being too loud, and that will be that.”

“But--”

“Don’t even, you know you were just going to go home today and spend the night torturing yourself with more pictures of McCall and Argent.”

“Only disgruntled college students like us or old people go to the pub! Nobody ever goes there to pick up anybody,” Stiles protests.

“Then go home with a dinosaur, I don’t actually give a fuck, Stiles. You’re going to get laid, and that’s that.”

Stiles makes a face, but capitulates with a heavy put-upon sigh. If anything, he can at least drink his sorrows away for the night.

-

The pub, affectionately known to the university body as the Sinkhole, is dead as a fish on a general weekend night, but on a Wednesday? Cobwebs are practically forming over the kegs right now.

Erica drags Stiles over to the bar and parks his ass there before impatiently waving over the bartender for two pints of draft beer without waiting to take off her coat.

“Hey, Isaac,” she greets with a tight smile. “Two drafts please?”

Isaac, the bartender for the night, smiles obligingly at her and nods at Stiles, who’s already slumped over the bar counter like his soul’s flown away.

“Got it. What’s Stiles having?” he asks with a grin, and Erica rolls her eyes. Stiles rolls onto the other side of his head so that he can face Isaac and flaps his hand in a vague gesture.

“Stiles will be having a life, preferably without feelings,” he mumbles into the wood surface. Isaac and Erica exchange looks, and Erica breaks away with a sigh and a light slap at Stiles’ hunched back.

“Give him a line of tequila. I have a feeling he’s going to need it,” she advises and Isaac moves away to get their orders.

“Ugh, tequila, are you serious, Erica? I have a paper due Friday, how am I going to get that done if I’m nursing the hangover from hell tomorrow?” Stiles complains.

“If I’m going to be drinking tonight, I’m not gonna have your mopey ass bring down my buzz, you got that?” Erica says, taking off her coat finally and placing it and her scarf on the barstool next to her. “Now take off your jacket, you killjoy, and go mingle with the rest of the pub.”

Stiles lifts his head at that to level her with a bitchy face. “This bar is deader than dead, Erica, have you see these people? Ol’ Nicholas over there is practically falling asleep in his beer!”

“Shut up and drink, you baby,” she snaps just as Isaac comes back with her pints and a stack of shot glasses, salt, and a bowl of lime wedges. She points at them for extra emphasis, steals one of his shots to knock back as is, and starts in on her beer.

Grumbling, Stiles licks a stripe across the junction between his thumb and forefinger, sprinkles salt, and fits his mouth to it, tongue darting out to taste the crystals. Then he throws back a shot of tequila and grabs a lime wedge to suck on.

“There, now, you see? You’re more fun already,” Erica says with a grin. Stiles rolls his eyes at her, still sucking on the lime, and shoves at her. “Hey, hey. No violence tonight. Good clean dirty fun, okay? Now go off and mingle.”

“Lydia is going to kill you tomorrow,” he points out, nonetheless hopping off his seat and snagging another shot glass to tip back straight. Erica snickers and pats him on the cheek before shooing him away.

“Yeah, yeah. Let her come at me, whatever. Go, shoo.”

Stiles makes another face at her but turns around to fully regard the pub occupants. There’s a group of tired-looking grad students in the far-off booth, close to the bathrooms, hunkered over their beer bottles and basket of tortilla chips. A trio of undergrads (one of which actually is actually one of Stiles’ students for the psych class he TA’s for) sit at one of the pub’s five round tables near the divider between the bar space and the rest of the room, chatting to each other while snacking on celery sticks and wings. Old Nicholas is in his regular booth, grumpily digging into his bean dip in between swigs of his malt whiskey and occasionally glaring at the undergrads for their slightly-louder-than-normal chatter. A few couples interspersed here and there, sitting intimately close to each other, grasping martini glasses and tumblers, and... _hello, there._

A (hopefully single, please be single, please) scowling man in a slightly-too big leather jacket and enough scruff on his abnormally high cheekbones to hit Stiles’ newly discovered kink sits across from the bar in one of the empty booths, listening to his cellphone while listlessly swirling a celery stick in a bowl of ranch dip. His scowl darkens every few seconds, eyebrows furrowing even further, before he replies back to the other person on the phone, and Stiles is suitably intrigued. He straightens against the counter, downs one more shot and plucks a wedge to chase away the aftertaste, and girds his loins accordingly.

“Okay, I’mma head into the fray now, Reyes. Wish me luck,” Stiles quips, drawing Erica’s attention away from her complimentary bowl of tortilla chips and her easy flirtation with Isaac, who hovered over the bar in front of her.

“Oh shit, are you serious? You actually found someone? Point me point me.” Erica perks up, eyes widening in excitement. Stiles discreetly nods towards the beard guy, and Erica gives a low whistle of approval. “Hot damn, Stilinski. Looks like you’re going to have quite a night. Go get ‘im, tiger.”

Isaac raises his eyebrows, but gives his own thumbs-up of approval, so Stiles feels bolstered enough to make his way to the guy’s booth and slide in across from him without so much as a by your leave.

Scruffy jerks up immediately, drawing his phone away from his body, and levels Stiles with an incredulous glare, to which Stiles returns with a genial smile for maximum charm.

“Do I know you?” Scruffy asks darkly, his surprisingly light-colored eyes narrowed. Stiles shrugs and snakes out a hand to steal one of his celery sticks before Scruffy slaps it away with a resounding smack. “Seriously, back the fuck off.”

“I just thought you needed some company, sitting here all by yourself,” Stiles says innocently, smile still in place. He holds his hand out over the table for a handshake. “I’m Stiles.”

“...Does this seriously work with anybody?” Scruffy asks after a beat. “At all.”

Stiles winces, dropping his hand. “I’m a little rusty, okay, it’s been a while.” He looks over to where Erica is, and finds her and Isaac not-at-all subtly leaning towards them as if it’d help them listen in on the conversation. She winks and gives him an exaggerated thumbs-up, and Stiles grimaces, turning back.

“Color me surprised,” Scruffy says dryly. His phone hangs from his hand almost limply, apparently forgotten, as he focuses his attention on Stiles. There’s a continuous stream of talking coming, though, and Stiles looks at him questioningly before pointing at the phone.

“Shouldn’t you, uh, be getting that?” he prompts. Scruffy shrugs and settles back into the booth, slumping down, bringing the phone to his lap.

“Laura can wait. Come on then, give me your best shot,” he says, eyes flicking up and down at Stiles’ body.

“Wh-what? Now? Can’t you give me a few minutes to gather my thoughts, really get a handle on things first?” Stiles jokes, thrown by the sudden relaxed posture and tone. Scruffy’s lips curl upward, like it’s been awhile since his face had to produce a smile of any kind, but it changes his face immediately, drawing it out of the dark gloom and highlighting just how well his jawbone curves around his face.

“Well, now I’m insulted if you thought you could come here with that bad of game. At the risk of sounding full of myself, I think I deserve a lot more than what you’re giving me right now.”

“Ugh. Can I at least get a name to work with, here? Throw me a bone,” Stiles mock-whines, smiling when he catches the wisp of a smile on Scruffy’s face widen into something more genuine. “No? Well, alright then, you’re forcing my hand now. You look like a Miguel to me, so that’s going to be your name for the rest of the night if you don’t jump in here.”

Scruffy raises his eyebrows. “Six hundred years worth of Irish ancestry just rolled in their graves right now. Try again.”

“Hey, Miguel’s a perfectly respectable name, you know. 37th most popular name in Mexico, I’ll have you know,” Stiles defends, sticking his nose exaggeratedly up in the air. Scruffy rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay, you’re Irish, so how about a classic Irish name: Patrick. How’s that? No? Rory? You seem like a Daniel at least. Am I even a little bit close?”

“Well, you got the first letter right, congratulations. Give the man a prize, ladies and gentlemen,” Scruffy drawls, waving his hand about lazily. Stiles grins.

“Is my prize your name? I think I’ve earned it by now, don’t you think?”

-

His name is Derek; through sheer luck and Derek’s clearly saint-like tolerance for Stiles’ persistence, they end back up in Stiles’ (and Lydia’s) apartment with one clear goal in mind for the night.

Stiles and his pillow and bed sheets end up enjoying his prize very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's like the slightest bit of racism here with that one miguel line (or at least i think it was????? i'm p sure it is???????) but it was such a great line, idk. there wasn't really a way for me to spin it, but yeah. i left it in, but just felt horribly guilty. no need to tell me tho, i know already lmaksodjao


	2. give us another kiss before you leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU, wherein Derek is secretly the bestselling author of the strikingly popular chick-lit series Canine Concubines, Laura plays the face, and Stiles is an unapologetically voracious romance novel reader with a huge crush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this particular one, i had so many feelings about because a) derek hale as a romance novelist, b) laura being the fake derek hale, and c) secret identity hijinks?????
> 
> if i ever had a particular fic i'd like to go back to, it would probably be this one bc it just had so much potential that never got written out.

Erica says he’s in a rut. Took one look at him at their scheduled monthly meeting to look at his latest drafts, and wrote him off immediately with a sigh and a quickly-scrawled small-town name on a post-it note that he’s apparently to be spending a sabbatical in, to “refresh those masturbatory writing juices” of his. Told him he’d been “spending way too much time living like a hermit in that cave of [his], doing nothing but watching soaps in his dirty underwear and scribbling down whatever trite, cheesy romantic thought comes to mind.”

Derek is extremely displeased with this new development. Being exiled to the middle of bumfuck, nowhere--also known as Beacon Hills, home of the Beacon Hills High School Cyclones, the reigning high school lacrosse team and pride of just about every resident in this godforsaken place--was not what he’d expected to be doing for the next year. He makes that explicitly clear to Laura during their daily phone-call that night, complete with choice vulgarity about Erica’s possible goat mother, viciously throwing imaginary darts at her face in his mind.

But of course, as always, Laura remains on the side of whoever is giving Derek a coronary at the moment, and she readily agrees with Erica’s command, adding that it’ll make things easier for her since she wouldn’t have to shuffle back and forth across the country for his book signings.

Derek is nothing, if not a severe pushover for his sister; hence, he’s currently shuffling out of the baggage claim area of LAX, dragging his suitcase behind him, his black duffle bag shouldered. He’s tired and viciously grumpy, having spent the past five hours in the air with _three_ screaming brats sitting in front and behind him, and all he wants to do is call for a cab to the nearest hotel and crash for a couple of hours. He’s definitely not expecting to see Laura until tomorrow for their planned reunion and road trip up to Beacon Hills, so Derek’s completely taken by surprise when he’s suddenly assaulted by a running figure slamming into him, almost tackling him to the ground. He reflexively grabs onto the person, taking a step back to steady the added weight.

“Oh, baby brother, it’s so good to see you!” crows the loud joyful voice by his ears, and it takes Derek a few seconds to orient himself and place the sound.

“Laura, you’re here,” he says with wonder, smile spreading across his face and doing away with his earlier black mood. He squeezes her back, adjusting his arms to fully embrace her, and they stand for a little bit in front of the sliding door exit, hugging and soaking in each other’s presence.

She pulls back first, giving him a loud clap on the back and grins widely with glee, looking up at his face.

“Oh man, it’s just not the same, just Skyping with you. It’s nothing like the full Derek Hale experience in person, you know?” Laura says. Derek nods in agreement, smile growing wider across his face. “And, I mean, yeah, I get to see you for Christmas and when I come to New York for your book signings and shit, but now we’ll actually be living together! Just like old times!”

“Yeah, I know--wait, what?” Living together? The last he heard, it was solely him who’d been exiled to the Siberia of America.

Laura’s smile turns mischievous, curling in at the edges like how she used to imitate her favorite Saturday morning cartoon villains doing while Derek sat beside her, grumbling into his mini-wheats. She cocks her head to one side, blinking innocently, and throws her arm around him, ushering them out of the airport without pause.

“Didn’t I tell you on the phone yesterday?” she says lightly, poking Derek’s cheek with the hand hanging loosely over his shoulder. “I could’ve sworn I mentioned it to you before you left.”

Derek levels an unimpressed face at her, looking back over his shoulder to make sure his suitcase didn’t trample over anybody as they cross the crosswalk into the parking lot across the airport terminal. “Uh huh. Do tell me what I apparently forgot I heard, then.”

“Well, you know how Erica told you all the arrangements for your living situation were made in advance?” she prompts, drawing out the vowels in her words. Derek nods slowly, hiking up the slipping duffle bag on his shoulder, a sense of dread forming at the base of his skull. “Truth is, I bought a house up in Beacon Hills about a month ago, and my lease on me and Mike’s apartment finally ended yesterday, so I’m going to be living in Beacon Hills from now on. And since Erica put you on mandatory sabbatical, I thought it’d be a lot simpler for you to just move in with me instead of having to live in some rented cottage out in Maine or something because god knows even though you insist on living in the city, you’re a true nature’s man through and through and you’d never actually leave the cottage and then I’ll never see you again ever.”

An unbidden tongue click slips out from Derek’s pursed lips, and Laura stops in her tracks, her arm tightening around Derek’s neck more like a chokehold than a friendly embrace now.

“What?” she says, a dark expression falling over her earlier sunny disposition. Derek twitches, well aware of his sister’s ungodly strength and his precarious position, and shakes his head.

“No, it’s nothing--” Laura narrows her eyes, about to chew him out, but he hurries on, “I mean, it’s not _nothing_ , it’s just. It would’ve been nice to have some heads up, I guess, before being blindsided by such a huge thing like you actually _buying a house without telling me_ or that I’d actually be living with you again.”

“Do you not want to? It’s fine if you don’t want to, Derek, I’ll find other arrangements for you then,” she asks brightly, letting go of him and moving again, but Derek caught the flash of hurt that crossed her face before her smile came back up and he rushes to catch up to her again.

“No, wait, Laura--come on, Laura, that’s not what I meant!” A car pushes out of its spot, just separating Derek and Laura, and he scowls furiously at the unexpected obstacle, looking helplessly as Laura walks further away into the parking garage. “Come on, Laura! Wait up!”


	3. he was stiles! he had hair! that’s how he became the nanny!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> also known as: i’m so sorry i’m actually making a the nanny!au, please don’t hate me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT COULD'VE BEEN, GUYS. i'm a huge 'the nanny' fan, the show is what i watch when i eat, study, and want as background noise FFFFF, and i had so many ideas for a possible sterek!nanny au, but again, it never really got off the ground.
> 
> see [here](http://lire.tumblr.com/post/49581254104/mammaria-oligopoly-mammaria-replied-to-your) for me rambling with maria about what could've been.

It’s not like Stiles isn’t qualified for a nanny position--in fact, he’s _overqualified_ , if anything, because he’s gone through both his Bachelor’s and his Master’s, and is now in the midst of trying to complete his stupid PhD. Except, well. That’s how he got into this stupid mess in the first place.

The man sitting in the sofa across from him is intently studying his resume and sneaking glances at Stiles every few seconds, which makes Stiles beyond uncomfortable, if he’s to be honest. Does he not seem responsible enough for a job like this? How hard could it be, taking care of a bunch of rugrats?

The man clears his throat, placing the resume gently down on the coffee table and sitting back, adjusting his tie--his _tie_ , for gods’ sake, the guy’s wearing a three-piece inside the house during the middle of the day, what _even_. Stiles tries not to fidget or pick at his own threadbare blazer as he waits for his possible employer to speak.

“Your name is...Stiles? Stiles Stilinski?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. Stiles clenches his teeth, tries to keep the twitch in his mouth from showing, as he nods.

“Yeah, uhm, it’s a nickname because my real one used to get me beat up on the playgrounds,” Stiles says, shrugging. “Also, it’s a lot easier on the tongue to say. Trust me.”

His employer looks almost amused as he nods. “Noted.” After a few beats of silence, he sighs. “I’m sorry, but. You don’t really look like a nanny, and--” he holds up a hand to stop Stiles’ reply, “--while your resume is quite remarkable, it’s also very much geared towards an academic career, not something so...low-key as daytime nanny. If you don’t mind me asking, why exactly are you not looking for a job that better fits your qualifications?”

Stiles bites back the first three responses that come to mind, all of which involved pretty heavy language, and forces a tight smile on his face.

“Look, Mr. Hale, I’m going to be honest with you right now. At this moment, I _have_ no other options--for reasons I won’t get into until after the third date, but. I’m capable, I’m free, and I like kids. You say my resume is geared towards an academic career, and well, yes, that’s true. I’d like to work with kids one day, mold minds, shape their futures. And what better way to start than with actual babysitting?”

“...You do realize my kids are barely over the age of ten, yes? Your degrees are more suited towards young adults, not pre-adolescent children; why don’t you get a job as a student teacher at the high school, if you’re really that dedicated to our children’s futures?” asks Mr. Hale, eyebrows raised again. Stiles huffs, caught in his bullshit.

“Okay, so they’re a little young, but now’s the time to start, right?”

“Your degrees are in theoretical physics, Mr. Stilinski.”

“...Science waits for no man?”

Mr. Hale sighs and takes off his spectacles, pocketing them, and sits back up, the lines of his suit and vest pressing sharply against his defined chest--which Stiles is not at all looking at, what even.

“Mr. Stilinski, I’m sorry. I know you’re very capable, but I don’t really think you’re the right person for this job. I’m sorry for having you come all the way out here.”

Stiles gapes a bit, helplessly watching as Mr. Hale raises from the sofa to offer his hand in a consoling handshake.

“What-- But, can’t I get at least a test trial? I mean, I really am good with kids! Come on, Mr. Hale, I’m desperate!”

He shoots up out of his seat, frantic.


	4. breathing slowly makes me dizzy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or, the one where derek is an art student who's struggling with the fact that he really can't draw anything right now and stiles, the cheeky graphic design kid sharing his studio space, really just wants to help (into his pants)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this one was based on this one prompt/fanart [here](http://lire.tumblr.com/post/45891745346/agentotter-sphesphe-whats-the-matter), and i started out thinking it would be totally short and fun except it just stopped short of going anywhere and nothing ever happened?????
> 
> sorry guys i just keep trolling u all with promised sex but i just don't ever deliver
> 
> e v e r

The easy part is canvassing.

Wood for his frame gets cut, sanded, and glued together in under thirty minutes, though the gluing takes a little longer since Derek’s notoriously clumsy and his corner bracket’s a little bumpy from all the leftover dried glue. Corner braces are gingerly nailed, Derek taking care not to splinter the wood, and then he lets the frame dry for another fifteen minutes before canvas stretching. That takes another twenty minutes, and Derek focuses intently on pulling the canvas tightly over the corners of the frame . The edges are judiciously stapled in and then cut, leaving only a few centimeters of canvas left over the frame.

All the while, the canvas building space is filled with the loud, soulful croons of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody, blasted at full volume from the student studio space that Derek shares with his fellow art majors.

Today is Stiles' turn at the radio.

The rising strains of Galileo, Galileo fill the studio, Stiles' own warbly falsetto joining in a few lines later, his familiar off-key voice curdling the edges of the song. Derek rubs at his face with a sigh but still finds himself muttering the words along as he violently spreads the gesso around the frame with heavy-handed brush strokes.

Gessoing takes another two hours since his frame is particularly big this time, and Stiles keeps the air afloat, his music moving from Queen to Ciara and then Muse, all the while accompanied by his dulcet tones. By the time Derek's done and washing clean his brush, he's resigned himself to having “Goodies” stuck in his head for the rest of the night.

Leaving the canvas to set and dry, Derek makes his way back to the studio space he shares with Stiles, Destiny's Child and their wishes for a soldier increasing in volume with each step closer. Turning around the whitewashed wall that separates his shared studio space from his fellow classmates, Derek is met with Stiles leaning forward on his chair, soulfully crooning to his desktop screen, holding a Pantone book to his mouth like a microphone with his eyes squeezed close. Holding back the smile that always threatens to break his poker face when he sees Stiles, Derek rolls his eyes and lightly cuffs Stiles on the head, startling the bespectacled boy into a flailing motion, book flying out of his hand.

"SWISS FUCKING CHEESE--" Stiles squawks, hands coming up to clutch at his throat and head. He twists around his chair to look wildly at Derek and a scowl crosses his lips. "Seriously, Derek? You gotta be like that?"

"Not my fault you're so easily distracted by bad 90s R&B," Derek says loftily, walking to his side of the studio and plopping himself down on his chair, leaning back with a groan.

"Excuse you, 'Soldier' is a stunning lyrical message that tells us all how to bandanatize so that we can be pimping enough for the goddesses that are the Destiny's Child. Also, it came out in 2004, so fuck you, you uncultured swine."

“Uh huh.”

Stiles makes a noise and pushes his chair over to Derek’s side, squeaking across the linoleum tiles. Derek feels a nudge to his knee, and he lifts his head up with bleary eyes at Stiles, who looks back with a raised eyebrow and inviting grin.

“How’s your project going, asshole?” he asks, nudging Derek again with his knee. “You getting anything done yet?”

Derek exhales heavily, “Does building the canvas count?”

“Well, I’d give it points for effort, but I don’t know how Professor Iman would grade it. You could spin it as the ‘process of art’ or something if you wanna leave it as is, but I mean, you’d need a damn good thesis for that,” Stiles says, shrugging.

“That’s your forte, not mine,” mutters Derek, bringing up a hand to swipe over his face. “How’s your class going?”

Stiles hums, taps at his chair arm. “Eh. Not particularly horrible. Re-learning CSS is a bit of a pain since the last time I used that coding, I was in middle school trying to make my Batman shrinepage pop. But not too horrible, considering the alternative.”

“You mean Whittemore’s class?”

“Yeah. Welding and I will never be friends of any kind.”


	5. i see you make your way through the crowd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which their lives are not a fucking taylor swift music video, godamnnit. (the you-belong-with-me!au)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i prompted somebody for this actual fic too but i decided to write my own bc i just really wanted to see it come out of my own words. this was one of my older fics, in between the first bit of disneyland!au and balling, so you can really see the progression (or regression, ig since i'm like posting backwards) in my writing.
> 
> but yes, this is literally supposed to be based on the tswizzle song 'you belong with me' bc i'm a terrible person and i have terrible taste in music. (horrible message, but it was the senior year anthem for like a big quarter of my friends in high school ahahahhaa)
> 
> what i liked most from this was my one attempt at writing stilinski family feels, which i thought turned out pretty gr100000 haahahahaha.
> 
> WARNING: there's a pretty crappily-written, unrealistic panic attack here, sorry. please take that into consideration if you're still reading this LOL

It isn't love at first sight. Because that doesn't happen, ok, the ridiculous overwrought cliche of seeing your soulmate walk through those hallowed halls for the first time and falling ass first in love with them and never separating until death did the both of you fucked. All these stories and these romantic notions of finding your true love and all the bullcrap about just _knowing_ that this was the one, it drives Stiles mad. Because it just doesn't happen, ok, it just doesn't.

He doesn't care how much Scott thinks it's it for him and Allison, they're not _soulmates_. And god, how stupid is that word anyway? Soulmates, mates, partners from the moment you both breathe into life until the day it becomes your last, the meant-to-bes, _the one_. Who comes up with these things, even? Who decided that they could not live without that person they wanted to bone for the rest of their miserable existence and decided, hey, it should be a thing. You are the mate of my soul, and I yours. I belong with you, and you.

You belong with me.

-

Lydia Martin is a goddess. A perfect being, a Bright One, the deity of Stiles' religion, and if he actually bought into that love-at-first-sight Cinderella crap, he'd say she was the one. But of course not, because Stiles is rational and not an idiot. Well. Most of the time.

Ok, he tries not to be one. But, come on, who can really blame him? It's Lydia fucking Martin, and when she walks down the grimy linoleum like it's her fucking stage and mortal fools rush to the sides to watch her strut, even angels fear to cross her path. She's _perfect_. She would be the girl Pygmalion left Galatea for, ok, not even joking. He's seen it happen.

And, it's not even like she's just beyond gorgeous; she's a fucking _genius_. Sure, she tries to hide it when she's among her sycophants and her jerkass boyfriend (Stile weeps, he _weeps_ , every day that she chose Jackson dickbag Whittemore as her consort, ok, it's like supremely unfair and just so wrong that a god would even deign to touch lips with a dickface that even kittens hiss at), but he knows just how incredible she really is. Most people don't even realize that she's their valedictorian-to-be, but dear god, Lydia is just so much more than a title. She's made their math teachers cry before for their incompetency, jesus.

But, that's not who Stiles thinks of when he digs in the spank bank, and god really, why couldn't he just have someone like Lydia Martin, unattainable goddess and furious math prodigy, why not her?

It's Derek fucking Hale he sees behind his fluttering eyelids when he touches himself at night, when he opens his mouth and pretends something is filling it up, when he trails spit-slick fingers up and down his cock and tugs at his swollen balls, when he slides a finger around and into his hole, when he comes like a fucking train every time he pictures Hale on his knees in front of him, on top of him pressing in with his thick heavy dick, on his back for Stiles to push up against and rut like a dog.

That rat bastard.

-

The first day of freshman year of high school, Stiles enters through the doors with the highest of hopes to escape the mantle of socially awkward geek that happens to be the town sheriff's son and land on the steps of popularity with his best buddy Scott at his side, ready to take on the next four years of hell. What he gets is an ass fall that hurt so much he probably bruised his fucking tailbone and the title of school loser tattooed to his metaphoric acne-riddened forehead for the rest of his godfucked life.

All because he happened to be the smoothest genius to ever walk into Derek holy-gods-I'm-so-fucked Hale with a precariously balanced lunch tray in one hand and wildly gesticulating the other to Scott about how Marvel was such a better multiverse than DC. (He's a liar, of course, because DC has fucking _Batman_ , how the fuck does anybody not go for the fucking VENGEANCE OF THE NIGHT?)

Stiles likes to pretend none of it ever happened just for his own self-preservation, but the sting of humiliation is just too painful not to revisit when he's feeling even the slightest bit masochistic. It goes a little like this (and of course, by that, he means, it went almost exactly like this because he's just clumsiest dickhead to ever bumble in bumbling history):

Stiles isn't looking in front of him as he and Scott make their way to the empty table by the corner he'd spied earlier on when he'd entered the cafeteria, and all his attention is focused on making Scott understand just how kickass Marvelverse is, especially with the newest X-Men movie that'd just come out a few weeks ago, even though movies don't equal comics at all, but still, ok. He's got a tray of Beacon Hill High's finest gourmet slop in one hand and the other jabbering away, narrowly skimming by Scott's eyes a couple of times, which Scott makes a face at him for.

"But seriously, man! You just cannot understand the sheer brilliance of this sequel, it is like beyond amazing! And, not going to lie, Halle Berry as Storm, holy gods, does she age like a fine wine or wha--"

Hello, gravity. Have you met my friend, clumsiness? Oh, no? Then I’m sure you’ll get along _smashingly_.

It’s like he’s run into a fucking brick wall, except, that’s not quite right because brick walls are not this warm (read: burning like a motherfucker holy shit is the building on fire or something) and holy crap are those abs he’s feeling? Damp, too, hm. What in the gods’ names?

Of course, it’s not like anybody likes giving Stiles a break because why let the poor kid have a good day for once? Nah, let’s just make him even more miserable by having _Derek Hale growl at him_. Like, not even joking, this is a straight-up à la Animal Kingdom-style fucking growl, deep within the chest and spilling out his (nicely stubbled holy hotness Batman) throat like Stiles is something to be eaten. And not in a good way, jesus fuck.

“...oh oh oh shit, oh god, oh my god, oh my fucking god, oh my _god_ \--”

“--he’s so sorry about this mess, I swear! We totally didn’t even see you and he totally did not mean to bump into you--”

“-- _oh my god oh my god ohmygod ohmygod ohmygOD_ \--”

“--really, he’s totally sorry about this, and he’s not even usually this clumsy, he’s just been a bit excited about school--”

Stiles is so so so screwed holy fucking shit. Faintly, he’s aware that Scott’s being the bestest friend in the whole entire universe and trying to do damage control because Derek Hale looks like he’s about to rip Stile’s fucking head off, and honestly, Stiles would like to get back up smoothly and hold out his hand and apologize like the good boy that he knows his mom had raised him to be, but oh my _god_. He’s just sitting on the floor like a lump, unable to do anything other than stare blankly at the tall boy before him and basically hyperventilate like a sad motherfucker. The entire lunch room’s just staring at him, he knows it, all eyes drawn like lasers at his prone form and yeah, he should do something but he just _can’t shut up_. His heart’s pounding and he can feel his breathing already quickening and is this for real because he’s actually going to have a panic attack on the first day of school in front of everyone.

“--iles! Stiles! _STILES_!” A face pops into his slowly darkening vision, and he’s not even speaking anymore, too choked up to articulate sounds, and he feels a warm, almost hot, palm on his back, and then his head’s being forced down between his knees, and he’s suddenly being manhandled into somebody’s arms by someone who clearly is not versed in the know-how of hugs. Stiles would say something snarky if he’s even the slightest bit aware of his surroundings, but there’s a loud buzzing in his ears and his vision is swimming in and out and oh god, the breathing.

The last thing he remembers before he passes out on the grimy tiled floor of the school cafeteria is soft rumbling and that warm palm still pressed into his back.

Yeah, great first day of school.

-

He wakes up in the nurse’s office, suddenly and viciously aware of what’s happened, and his body jerks up from the bed--or, well, tries to jerk up before firm hands push him back down. Stiles snaps his head to the left and finds his dad in his sheriff’s uniform, out of his chair and half standing over him with his arms firmly pressing down on Stiles, and Scott sitting in the chair next to him, a relieved expression breaking out over his face.

“...d-dad,” Stiles croaks, feeling a tight soreness in his throat. The jerking left his head dizzy, and he’s glad his dad stopped him from getting up because the sudden vertigo is killing him right now. He tries to say more, but his throat protests the strain, and he ends up coughing dryly, prompting Scott out of his chair and up to get a cup of water.

“.........” Stiles wants to say something to break the silence that’s fallen between him and his dad. He stares at his father, who’s taken back his seat after making sure Stiles wouldn’t get up again, with lidded eyes, taking note of the harried and frayed way he’s holding his body in, the small coffee stain on the left of his khaki-colored uniform that’s still a bit dark (meaning that he must’ve come as quickly as possible to the school once the school called him from his infrequent coffee breaks), the drumming fingers that he’s got tapping away at his thigh like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how to begin.

Thankfully, Scott comes back quickly, holding a plastic cup of water, with liquid sloshing a little bit over the edge, and Stiles is helped up to a sitting position at a much more comfortable manner than his initial waking before being handed the cup and guzzling down the water like a pitifully dehydrated wanderer who’s finally found a pound of water to dunk his head into.

“Ah, that’s the good stuff, H2O, thanks, buddy,” says Stiles, smacking his lips a bit after he’s gone through the whole cup. He clears his throat a bit before turning to his dad with a sheepish grin. “Hey, dad. Sorry about this whole big mess. You know how it is, we teenagers just need a little daily drama or it’s just not high school.”

His dad’s shoulders relax from the tense position they were held in, and Stiles can see that he’s visibly holding back from slumping in relief. He does, however, stop tapping his fingers and gives Stiles a weary smile, smoothing over the wrinkles in his uniform, a tic that he does when he’s trying to keep his hands to himself.

“Well, I was expecting it, with you and your teenage hormones, but I didn’t think it’d start on the first day of school,” his dad says wryly, mock exasperated tilt to his smile. Stiles shrugs a bit, grin still on his face, and opens his arms up for his dad to hug it out like he knows his dad’s been dying to do.

“Lay it on me, daddy-o,” Stiles jokes before being immediately engulfed in the strong arms of his father. He lets out a shaky breath and pretends he doesn’t hear his dad do the same, and just soaks up the comforting feeling of hiding in his dad’s chest for a little bit longer. High schoolers shouldn’t have to seek comfort from their parents, they’re old enough, Stiles knows this, but it’s been his first panic attack since the months after his mom’s death, and really, fuck them. He can hug his dad as much as he wants, ok.

“You gonna be okay for the rest of the day or do you want to go home, kiddo?” asks his dad quietly, still unmoving from their father-son embrace of true familial love. Stiles nods, rubbing his head against the cotton uniform laying over his dad’s chest, and takes one last breath before pulling away, grin back on his face.

“Of course, dad. Never let a bad day knock you down, right?” says Stiles, grin stretching a little too wide. His dad just looks at him, steady and assessing, and really, it’s okay, he’s fine. He’s _fine_. “I’m fine, dad. Really. I’m fine.”

-

So, Stiles is a bit of a liar. Because he’s not actually _fine_ , despite all the reassurances he plies on his father, he’s so _not_. He’s probably ruined his entire high school career with that freak-out in the cafeteria, and of all the people he has to run into and break down in front of, it’s Derek Hale that the fates thought to place before him.

Derek Hale, whose family used to entertain the Stilinskis back when Mom had been alive and well. Derek Hale, who used to run around with him in the Hales’ big backyard with the rest of his brothers and sisters because they used to be fucking _friends_. The kind that shared sundae splits when the two families would go out for brunch together, the kind that played wizards and dragons in the privacy of Derek’s bedroom and banded together to fight against the evil troll monster that Laura Hale was. The kind that read comic books together in the lazy afternoons, curled up on Derek’s bed and stuffing their faces with cheese crackers and apple wedges until they wanted to puke. The kind that’d put shaving cream in Michael’s hair while he slept on the couch after a hard day’s work at the autoshop and then run away giggling together as Michael chases them, cursing their bratty asses.

The kind that actually _knew what his first name was_.

Derek Hale used to be his best friend, and even though they were two years apart, it hadn’t been something that Stiles thought would ever affect their friendship because they just were. DerekandStiles, StilesandDerek, just the two of them.

But, it seems Derek did.

(And yeah, Stiles is a liar because he _does_ believe in soulmates. Because his mother and father were soulmates, and her death had crushed him. Left the sheriff standing alive, yes, but broken beyond repair. You can’t deny that kind of love, okay, and Stiles knows it to be fact that his father will love no one ever again because his mother had been _it_.

And, maybe, Derek had been that to Stiles too, once upon a time.

Derek had been _the one_.)


	6. like butter won't melt in your mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> au where stiles just sort of fell into baking. (canon divergence!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was like the most recently written fic i'd done for this fandom, right around the middle season 3a actually, and it was just like a visceral NOPE to everything jeff davis had done this season that i had to write something out that wasn't manpain shit
> 
> and it involved baking bc i love food and i had tons of recipes sitting around in my bookmarks and i thought, let's get some of this out there
> 
> ofc nothing ever ended up being finished, but whatever.

It started with Melissa McCall's thirty-third birthday.

Scott wanted to give his mom something nice for a change, after the whole kanima debacle and the whole 'surprise! your son is actually a cheap Halloween costume monster come to life! now with bonus shedding!' thing. Not unreasonable, given the fact that she had witnessed her son's transformation while forcibly held hostage by a truly disturbed and vengeful trigger-happy teenager. It was the least any of them could do, really. Stiles was happy to help in any way he could.

So, they decided to throw a surprise party for her after she got off her hospital shift. (Of course, considering how surprises went these days, it probably hadn't been the best idea to hide in a dark house and jump out from the shadows at a woman who'd just been introduced to the reality that creatures of the night really did exist. There had been quite a bit of pepper spray involved.)

The kicker was that Scott wanted to bake his mom a cake by himself. Convey his feelings, he said, gratitude and love and the desperate need to reassure his mother that he was still the same Scott she put Buzz Lightyear band aids on when he'd fallen off his tricycle and read bedtime stories to at three in the afternoon because she would be working the night shifts. Stiles got that; if he were a little more honest with himself (because honesty came so hard to him with each passing lie that escaped his lips), he'd admit that he was envious too, that Scott could at least still have a mother to please.

Decorations were easily put up, strung high and proud on the ceiling, thanks to Scott's supernaturally-gifted grace. They made the house festive, with bright colored streamers and only a few balloons because the rest had been nobly sacrificed in a balloon-popping battle.

The cake, on the other hand.

Well, home ec was never really Scott's strong suit, to say the least. The third attempt did have a passing resemblance to actual cake form, but the taste was tragically not. And of course, upon seeing the crestfallen expression on his best friend's face, Stiles stuffed back the suggestion of a store-bought cake into his throat and chased Scott and his protests away from the kitchen with the reassurance that he would bake the best birthday cake Mrs. McCall would ever have, so stop making that frowny face that made kittens cry.

It's a passable cake, an ambitious three-layer attempt of a double chocolate gateau that Stiles cobbled together from watching two separate youtube tutorial. The edges were 'well-done' (or judiciously charred), but covered up with enough chocolate ganache that Stiles could still taste in the back of his mouth three days later. The lettering clumsily spelt out 'happy birthday, mom' with a particularly huge 'o' that Stiles claimed was because of a jerky hand, and it spread proudly across the cake surface in its bright red royal icing. Stiles forgot halfway in mixing his eggs and flour that he needed sugar and frantically poured in a good amount of salt before realizing his mistake.

But, Melissa proclaimed it the best-tasting cake she'd ever had with wobbling lips and soft eyes glued to her son's blushing form. Stiles shoved his portion of the cake in Scott's face, starting a brief food-fight, to hide the fact that he was blushing, too.

-

It wasn't like Stiles suddenly discovered a passion for baking, after the birthday party. Frankly, his cake didn't even taste all that great, what with his salt-sugar bumble. He didn't have a knack for this kind of stuff, and general cooking was usually done by his dad on the weekdays and Marie Callendar and Stouffer's on weekends if they didn't turn to take-out to break away from the sheer monotony.

But.

Summer was _boring_. Scott told him that he was going to spend it in intensive studying to bring back his earlier grades before the shift and that he'd be living in the library for the next few months, so Stiles couldn't do his usual vegetating at the McCall house. Allison went off with her father to Europe for some extreme father-daughter bonding, and well, Stiles didn't really feel comfortable enough to be alone with the Argents yet anyway after his solid beating by their geriatric and dying patriarch. Lydia, well, he was working on his 'thing' with Lydia before he'd actually go ahead and talk to her again because his last attempt ended with the grossest outburst he'd ever spewed, on par with Matt's stalking. Him and Isaac weren't friends, even though Isaac suddenly started hanging around more with Scott, and Derek--

Derek and Stiles weren't friends either.

So, it was just Stiles and his lonesome, kicking his heels in an empty house that felt more and more like a cage as the days went by, trying to pass his time with his XBox and PS4 (even though Scott had Stiles' better games, but Stiles wasn't going to go and take them back because that was like both breaking bro-code and an outright declaration of their friendship over, which, _fuck no_ ) and attempting to get a headstart on his PSATs (which lasted like an hour before he ended up almost braining himself with the blue book in an exaggerated fit of disgust). He visited his dad at the station almost daily until even the sheriff had to put a quota on how many times Stiles was allowed in weekly because he was starting to drive his father crazy by proxy.

Stiles needed something to occupy himself with (because when even the _internet_ failed to keep his attention, he knew he was in deep shit), and the idea of going through his summer readings for the new year was only slightly less painful than going through the whole Jackson-running-rampant-across-town-as-a-giant-murderous-lizard-creature thing.

In the end, it took a full month of trying to keep himself busy and failing, an empty stomach and cupboards on a single Tuesday afternoon and a lack of desire to actually go to the supermarket to stock up, for Stiles to turn to the wonderful world of baking.

He had a particular nostalgic craving for cookies that day, the special rainbow blocks that Mrs. DiMaria used to bring to their house every other week while his mom had been in the hospital, with the bright pink-red, almond yellow, and leaf green sheets of almond cake bookended by at least a third of an inch of bittersweet chocolate because Mrs. DiMaria had known how much his mother loved them, and well. How hard could it be to whip up a batch?

(Stiles only learned afterward the first rule of Baking Club: Nothing was fucking easy in baking.)

By the time his dad returned home from his day-long shift at the station, far later than what was expected from a small-town sheriff because of their unfortunate drop in numbers on the force, the house had been well-infused with the appetizing smell of burnt cake bits and scorched ganache. The kitchen looked like a grenade had been leisurely rolled into the room and then exploded while the mixer was still on, coating the wallpapered walls with sticky almond paste and dripping the really expensive peach preserves that the sheriff had stowed away in the back corner of their refrigerator for special occasions. The kitchen table was a smear of garish pink and bright green batter, the surfaces dried over and duller than the still gooey innards.

But Stiles stood off by the sink, both unabashedly proud of himself and apologetic about the mess, holding off any of his dad's protests and pointed comments with a thrusted plate of misshapen, but clearly seven-layer cookies with bits of chocolate ganache flaking off at the top and jam oozing out between the colored layers.

"I know it's not anything like Mrs. D's cookies, but I just wanted to make something today, so. Here, dad, have one--no, wait, lemme get my phone first so I can call 911 in case this goes south--okay, _now_ have one and chew slowly." Stiles clutched his phone tightly to his chest, eyes focused on his dad's cautious fingers wrapping themselves around a particularly huge block that Stiles misjudged while cutting, and slowly, the sheriff took a bite.

Eyebrows raising, he stared a little at the cookie in his hand, the ganache lightly melting onto his fingertips from his body heat, and then he looked at Stiles, tired smile present in the quirk up his lips.

"'S not bad, actually. Could've done just as well without my fifty dollar jam," the sheriff's eyes crinkle sardonically, cutting to the the patches on the wall of evidence, "but it's not bad at all. Can't beat Liz's recipe, but there's a homey taste. Good job, son," the sheriff praised, clapping his free hand to the suddenly limp Stiles, popping the rest of the cookie into his mouth. "Now get this crap cleaned up before it leaves stains."

Stiles winced, placing the plate on the sink counter, and surreptitiously kicked away the overturned bowl near his feet towards the trash can.

"About that, dad...."

(The cookies tasted less sweet than Stiles remembered, with way more jam than he would've liked and maybe a little more gummy than he'd expected with his homemade almond paste, but his dad had said it right. There _was_ a homey taste to it, like a reminder of running home from the school bus and climbing up the kitchen counter to get to the snacks hidden safely away in the cupboards. It was...nice.)

-

Bolstered by the relative lack of disaster from his second baking attempt and his dad's mild praise, Stiles decided to try another baked good. He stayed up almost the entire night, going through recipes and links to cooking and baking blogs, filing away doable recipes on his phone and gawking at the sheer deliciousness that blog photos boasted, and after a quick face-planted snooze against the carpet, Stiles got up with one single goal in mind.

He was going to bake a pound cake like a boss. A chocolate chunk orange cream cheese pound cake that looked so moist and dense on his laptop screen, Stiles had come centimeters away from literally licking the dusty LCD. Granted it'd been 4AM and he'd been functioning on sheer will at that point, but still. Clearly this recipe was to be his magnum opus of baked goods (for now).

He took a quick trip to the supermarket to stock up on essential ingredients like flour and eggs because he apparently went through an entire carton with his rainbow cookie attempt, and plopped less relevant items in his cart like a really wickedly punk looking fruit called dragonfruit (even the name was hardcore) and some multiple bars of chocolate for when he wanted to snack on sugar later on. Stiles got about halfway home in his jeep before he remembered they didn't actually have a loaf pan in the house, and sat fruitlessly at a stoplight for an extra ten seconds before deciding he'll take the jump and head over to Scott's place because he knew Mrs. McCall had to have a pan or two lying around.

Scott was the one to open the door before Stiles even got his copied key in the keyhole. Stiles flailed back a little, stumbling over his grocery bags before Scott shot out a sturdy arm to steady him, pairing it with a sheepish smile. Stiles grumbled a little at the surprise before a mischievous grin crossed his face.

"Guess what we're gonna do today, Scotty my boy!" he sang, holding up his bags and giving them a shake in Scott's direction. Scott eyed them warily as he ushered Stiles in and closed the door shut after him.

“Uh….are we building a bomb?” he asked jokingly, following after Stiles, who immediately took off for the kitchen after stepping into the house.


	7. you can bet my love ain't a two-for-one sale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the one where they’re not all broken and sad and derek gets conned into a bachelor auction because his life is still Misery’s Bitch. at least there’ll be drinks though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just really wanted to explore kira and derek's relationship in this. there was a lot of planned fake dating and misunderstandings, but alas, i once again lost all the juice for it. but also i'm glad i at least got to explore kira's korean side of her half-korean parentage. :')

He calls Kira a little past one in the morning on a Wednesday. The phone rings three times before Kira picks up, and Derek surges into the attack, not giving her the time to even open the conversation.

“Please come home with me for Midwinter Break!”

There's a decidedly judgmental pause, dead air between them that has Derek sweating in his clothes before Kira bestows mercy.

“I'll meet you at Pocha in twenty,” she ends up responding, resignation clear as day. “And don't you even think about complaining about my choice of alcohol, mister,” immediately cutting off any protests Derek had with a snap.

“I'll even order the jjigae for four instead of two,” he promises instead, gratitude turning his bones into jelly. The claws threatening to pop dull back down, and he hangs up with the tension gone from his shoulders.

-

Kira gets there first, has already ordered a pitcher of watermelon soju and a just-bubbling flat pot of budae jjigae in the middle of the table, banchan spread out in front of her. Derek hunkers into the seat across, shrugs off his peacoat and takes the moment to dial down his hearing so the loud chatter and music doesn't shatter his ear drums.

“So what's the deal, chingu? What's gotten your panties into such a twist?” Kira asks curiously, stirring the pot with the sharing ladle, making sure to submerge the bricks of ramyeon completely into the hot broth.

The lighting is dark and gauzy, a standard bar atmosphere, but Derek is sure Kira can see him turn maroon as clear as daylight. He considers hedging, save himself a bit of dignity, but Kira just rolls her eyes and stirs the pot again with a pair of metal chopsticks and hails down a server.

Her question to the server is in lilting Korean, pitching up and down through the vowels, and the server only raises a brow before nodding and replying in same. She exchanges a quick thanks, the only bit of Korean that Derek is certain of, and turns back to face him with raised brows and a satisfied smile.

“Just asked for a fork for the little white boy,” she says mischievously, easily grabbing a scowl from Derek, and laughs. “Relax, I asked for a small samgyetang for your old bones, _oppa_. Can’t let my elders get sick in this weather, right?”

Derek sticks his tongue out and picks up his own set of chopsticks, the flat metal edges uncomfortably gripped between his fingers. He reaches for the banchan dish closest to him, a small bowl of kkakdugi, ripe red gochugaru flecked on the radish cubes. Ignoring the snort coming from Kira, who’s innocently stirring the jjigae with her flat ladle, her own pair of chopsticks filing through the noodles, Derek jerks his dish close to the kkakdugi and grabs a piece from the mound as delicately as he can, the only mess a little drip of sauce that lands safely within the dish perimeters.

“...Much as I’d love to spend the rest of the night watching you use chopsticks like a toddler, I do actually have classes to get to tomorrow,” Kira says drily, breaking Derek’s concentration. He jerks his hand and the radish cube wobbles and tumbles from his grip, but thankfully only into the dish right underneath.

“Ah. Yeah, um,” he starts, red cheeks coming back as he sheepishly drags his plate back towards him. Kira stares at him for a beat and then shakes her head.

“Okay, while you gather your thoughts, I’m gonna ladle up some food. Please have your five-hundred word essay, double-spaced and in twelve-point font, ready for me by the time I’m done,” she decides, pointedly grabbing the set of bowls on the side of the jjigae pot. Derek scowls.

“Okay, okay, fine. Laura talked me into doing something extremely stupid and now I need your help to get me out of it,” he says in one breath, eyebrows menacingly furrowed. Kira, unfazed, picks out noodles from the soup and divides it neatly into two bowls, spooning broth and tteok pieces and spam evenly over the two.

“What else is new, _oppa_ , it’s not like this doesn’t happen every other month anyway. Why do you need me to come with you to Beacon Hills this time?” she says bluntly, her chopsticks moving steadily between pot and bowl, not a drop in sight. Derek watches as she fishs out big chunks of spam and hot dog from the pot, reluctant to answer. “Come on, it can’t be as bad as the time you needed me to break you out of that foursome orgy you got suckered into by your creepy landlord.”

Derek almost chokes, but manages to keep his cool with a quick chug of soju. The bright sweet taste of watermelon washes out the recalled humiliation and he crunches grimly on the ice. “Thanks, Kira, it’s only been two months since I managed to bury that memory about six feet underground. Thanks for bringing it right back up,” he grimaces, and Kira laughs, waving her hand in apology.

“Okay, drama queen, okay. Here, have some ramyeon, it’ll perk you right up,” she placates, handing over a hot steaming bowl of jjigae, noodles piled on high with chunks of spam peeking through, soft tteok woven in and out. He murmurs a thanks and grabs for the fork a waiter had surreptitiously left on their table without fuss.


End file.
